


Silent Wars

by SinOfPride



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Pre-Canon, Weechesters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-11
Updated: 2012-02-11
Packaged: 2017-10-30 23:25:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/337332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SinOfPride/pseuds/SinOfPride
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Other fathers would have offered him ice-cream or a trip to a ball game. (3 steps to losing childhood innocence)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silent Wars

**Author's Note:**

> __  
> He is that fallen lance that lies as hurled,  
>  That lies unlifted now, come dew, come rust,  
> But still lies pointed as it ploughed the dust.
> 
> Robert Frost- A Soldier

~~

**_Letters to home_ **

The exact memories of before are imprecise with time and have gone dull around the edges. They change in small details every time Dean consciously tries to conjure them up. 

He thinks the curtains in his old room were blue, but then he recalls the way the morning light streamed through white fabric. Sometimes he's sure there was a teddy bear- Mr. Bear?- on his bed, but then he thinks it was on Sammy's crib. He doesn't really know what kind of toys he'd had or where he'd kept them. 

Other things are clearer. The vanilla perfume. The smell of pancakes in the kitchen and him trying to help in making them. Dean remembers what it felt like, looking up into her smile. She sang off-key to the old rock songs in the radio and danced around the living room with him when she was happy. Her eyes shone green when she laughed and she always ran her hands through his hair when he'd been good. 

Dean remembers running to her to get a hug just because he liked that closeness, just because she'd never turn him down. He remembers a time when the lines around his father's face came from smiling so much.

The way she'd say his name- that was special. She also said nice things to him, praised him so easily- that he was smart, that he was good, that he was a great big brother- little things that he still tries to live up to, years later, even though the praise isn't there anymore. Dean likes the memory of what it felt like, hearing it from her lips, even though the actual sound of her voice is like something sweet and unattainable. 

His favourite memory of her- and almost the only clear one- is playing with her on the grass while Dad held Sammy in his lap. He doesn't know when it happened, doesn't know what they were doing outside; she'd been there, though, smiling, laughing, hair shining yellow in the sun. Dad had been trying to get Sammy to play with a little ball that the baby kept throwing away, mostly at Dad's head. Dean remembers running after the ball once and then turning back- seeing his family there, Mommy, Sammy and Daddy looking back at him. It's his most perfect memory, ever.

Whenever he lets himself think back to it, he remembers feelings like _safe_ and _happy_ , but they've become parts of a pretty dream he can never quite go back to. He tries, sometimes, when things are good, but noting measures up and all he accomplishes is feeling hollow again. Incomplete. 

Normalcy and perfection- _home_ \- are things he knew, once, something he'd had. It's painful. So Dean forgets the picture-perfect details; he forgets the colour of his room's curtains and which toys were his favourites when he had a room full of them. He forgets how carefree he'd been and tries to forget what it felt like to have a house and a room and a mother that made of him her world. 

Instead, Dean vividly remembers the fire every night. He clings to what it felt like to have all the good things in life crumbling to ash beneath his feet as he clutched little Sammy in his arms.

~~

**  
_Trenches_  
**

Silence was his refuge. Not talking was safe, because every time Dean opened his mouth, it felt like another part of him was being torn from inside him and he had little left to spare. His feelings and thoughts were his, like nothing else really was anymore.

Daddy became Dad without real conscious thought, without consideration. The stranger that cried into his hair, smelling of molasses and sour smoke never took him to a ball game or tried to teach him to ride a bike. The stranger whose face was gaunt and pale and fuzzy was not a protector or a provider, but someone who needed to be taken care of. People said it out of his father's hearing and they never noticed when Dean was standing there. 

Dean didn't speak for a very long time. Not to make Sammy smile or even to stop his father's tears. But he climbed onto his Dad's lap and let him hold on tight. Dad didn't drink as much when he did it, though he cried more sometimes. Dean didn't. Tears made it hurt more, because Mommy wouldn't be there to help. No cookies, no milk, no teddy bear, no bedtime story. There was nothing except Dad's arms around him, Dad's sadness and Sammy's gurgling cries. Dean had to make it be enough, somehow. 

There were no words for that. No words at all.

~~

**  
_Skirmishes_  
**

One of Dean's elementary school teachers was Mrs. Donolly. She was a middle-aged woman who wore a frown like a badge of honour and had long ago lost any love for her profession. The kids in Dean's class were afraid of her, so they mocked her and none of it helped to improve the bitter woman's disposition. 

Dean didn't like her but he didn't say anything about it, unlike the other kids. Which is why he didn't understand why she had such a grudge against him in particular. 

"Winchester, are you paying attention?" She asked for the second time in the day. Dean just looked at her, feeling the uncomfortable weight of all the stares on him. 

He nodded, because he _was_ , and it wasn’t his fault that he hadn’t caught up to the other kids' level yet. Dad had moved them on a short notice last month- and he'd driven carefully enough on the way here to make Dean suspect it had something to do with cops- so Dean hadn't had time to catch up with this new school's assignments. 

He got a C on the last test for it, and Mrs. Donolly couldn't seem to let that go. She always singled him out. The giggles from his classmates didn't help his self-consciousness and he ducked his head, trying to look busy as the teacher gave him a sour look and kept on with the class. 

Dean listened half-heartedly to the story being told in class, not believing a word of the happy ending. But he didn't say anything about it. Then it was time to read some of the assignments they'd had to do. The announcement made Dean's breathing hitch as he heard the names being called up-front to read their essays. He stared down at his mostly blank notebook and tried really hard to make himself invisible, praying he wouldn't get called up- to no avail.

"Dean, step up-front, please." Mrs. Donolly hoarse voice called and he cringed, feeling frozen. 

He couldn't do that. 

Didn't the teacher get it? He didn't talk for a reason, the same one that meant he never raised his hand in class, dodged the direct questions and sat alone in the recess. The words for him just didn't come as they should. 

He talked to Sammy to help him learn things, talked to Dad to make him feel better or to help him feel less lonely, but not to strangers. Not to people who didn't understand. 

"Dean!" The teacher sounded mad. He ducked his head and shook his head quickly, clutching his notebook in white-knuckled fingers. He'd done his assignment- _what did you do during your summer vacations?_ \- he had it in his hand. But he couldn't read it. He wouldn't. "Dean Winchester, do you have your assignment or not?" 

He nodded his head, ignoring the mutters and the snickers from his classmates. He didn't look up as he heard Mrs. Donolly steps approaching him, but he held up his assignment wordlessly so she could see he had it. She took it, then made him look up at her with a surprisingly gentle hand on his shoulder. 

"Dean, you have it. And it's well done. Now, why don't you read it to your classmates?" 

She could have asked him to impersonate a chicken for all that it was going to happen. He looked up at her with big pleading eyes and shook his head again, lips closed. She had to get it. She had to.

Seemingly, she did. She just sighed, took his paper and moved on, calling another boy to read his homework. 

Dean relaxed, feeling cold all over and a little shaky from being put on the spot like that. He hated school. The teachers didn't want to get him as he was, always wanted him to be _normal_ as if that was something Dean was stubbornly avoiding. He wanted normal too. But he never said anything about wanting it, because he was a freak. He knew it. The other kids knew it. This teacher just had to realize it. 

Then the day was over, the bell like a sound of salvation to his ears. He quickly stuffed everything in his pack, almost running to the exit while carefully avoiding the clutter of other kids in the doorway. 

Speeding down the hall, Dean reached the school's main gates and stood there, trying to see where his father was. The Impala wasn't anywhere in sight, but the motel they were staying in wasn't that far. Maybe dad had walked. 

Nervously clutching his backpack, Dean moved to the front steps of the elementary school and waited patiently. Other kids rushed past him, falling into the open arms of mothers and fathers. Dean didn't look at them, feeling the familiar ache as he spotted a beautiful blonde woman leading a little boy by the hand. 

"Dean!" 

The voice was a relief. He looked up and quickly spotted his father standing near the playground’s swings. He rushed to meet him, not caring about looking over-eager. He wanted to go home already. Sammy perched on one shoulder, Dad gave him a tired little smile- the only kind he had, these days- and ruffled Dean's hair when Dean leaned against him just for a moment. Then a big, familiar hand was leading him towards the exit and Dean smiled, relieved. 

"Mr. Winchester!" He heard behind them and tensed, because that was his teacher's gravelly voice. 

Dad turned around to greet her as she walked over, while Dean just clutched at his hand like a lifeline. He wanted to leave. He gave his father’s hand a brief tug, but Dad just patted his shoulder and ignored him. 

Mrs. Donolly didn't look happy when she stood in front of them. Dean didn't know what he'd done now. "Mr. Winchester, I've been meaning to talk to you. I'm Laura Donolly, Dean's teacher. Can we have a word?" 

"Absolutely," Dad told her calmly, but Dean felt the hand on his shoulder tense its hold on him and wondered if Dad was already mad at him. He just hoped this stupid chat didn't wake up Sammy. "What's this about?"

His teacher looked at Dean then, kind of pointedly, but Dad just cleared his throat and didn't tell Dean to leave. So he didn't. 

Mrs. Donolly looked uncomfortable for all of a second, then straightened her back and met John's eyes squarely. She was tiny next to his father, so Dean had to admire her guts. "I'd prefer it if we could speak in private Mr. Winchester."

"No need. Dean here is mature enough to hear whatever it is," John told her assuredly. Dean tried not to smile too big, but he felt proud his father really thought that. Hopefully she wouldn't say anything too bad to change his Dad's mind. "Is there something wrong I should know about?" 

"Yes," Mrs. Donolly said bluntly and Dean shrunk back a little, ashamed. He knew she'd been mad about him not reading the stupid paper. Why was it so important? He'd lied in it anyway. He hadn't really gone to the Grand Canyon or taken pictures of Sammy riding a donkey. He'd just taken care of Sammy in another motel room with Dad gathering leads about a hunt in the wilds, and then gone to Pastor Jim's for a while. 

"I'm sorry to have to say this, Mr. Winchester, but Dean is not adapting as he should. Now, I read his file and understand he has some problems, but he doesn't speak at all. Not a word to anyone. Sometimes I'm sure he's not even paying attention." 

Dean tensed again, this time in anger, and tugged at his father's hand to show he didn't agree. He did pay attention. He tried. Dad ran a soothing hand up and down his back twice and Dean relaxed slightly, even if his father didn't look away from his teacher to reassure Dean. Dad was intense like that sometimes when someone criticised Dean's silence. 

"His handwriting is choppy and he's still got problems with his reading this late into the year. Frankly, he’s behind other children. Mr. Winchester, I feel it would be best if Dean was placed in another class that could attend to his needs." 

John's glare could have frozen hell in that moment. Dean saw him tense all over like he did when he was _really_ angry, and for a second he was terrified that Dad was mad at him. But then he saw Mrs. Donolly step back a pace, looking startled, and realized that the hand on his back was still soothing, gentle, while the full force of that ugly look of anger was turned on the woman. 

Mrs. Donolly's opinion aside, Dean was neither slow nor stupid. He knew she was implying he was too dumb, that he should be in a 'special' class, and felt his own anger and pain bubble up in his chest like he'd burst with it. But he didn't say anything to her. He just told himself he knew better, that Dad knew better, that it didn't matter. It hurt, because when she didn't force him in class, he'd thought she'd got it, that she’d understood he just couldn’t speak up like that. But it didn't matter that she hadn’t. She wasn't family. 

All the tension in the air then must have been harsh, because Sammy stirred in Dad's shoulder before John could get a word out past his anger. He made the unhappy noise he made when he was sleepy, and fussed, blinking big eyes at the lady still in front of them. Then he caught a sight of Dean, pressed against their father's side, and gave a little cry that always made Dean smile. Sammy was happy to see him. Sammy didn’t think he was dumb. 

"Hey Dee!" Sammy cried, trying to squirm free of John's grip to greet his brother and Dean waved at him, patting his leg so he stilled. For some reason Sammy refused to call him ‘Dean’, clinging to the nickname he’d had for his brother when he couldn’t pronounce the final ‘n’. “We goin’ home? Dee?”

"Dean?" His father said, shushing Sammy. Dean looked up at him, ignoring Mrs. Donolly and her angry huff at being brushed aside. "How was your day, buddy?" 

Dean swallowed, briefly looking away. 

He knew what Dad was doing. Normally, John respected Dean's silence and he didn't ask that question - or any other- until dinner or until they reached the motel, when it was just the three of them and Dean could relax more. But now here was this lady- his teacher, who _should have gotten it_ \- saying he was slow because he didn't want to talk, because he hadn't caught up yet. And Dad wanted Dean to prove her wrong. So he did.

"Too long," He told his father quietly, ignoring the teacher's eyes on him. "Billy Richardson tried to push me in the hall but I ducked. I got an A in Math and I handed in my homework to Mrs. Donolly but didn't want to read it aloud." 

Then he looked at his teacher and glared briefly, before reaching up his arms to his brother and letting go of Dad's hand. 

"She didn't like it. But I had the assignment and gave it to her. I missed you and Sammy. Can I hold him?" Sammy laughed delightedly- he usually did at the first sound of Dean's voice- and reached towards him, chanting 'dee', 'dee' and 'daddy down! lemme down!' like commands. 

John ruffled Dean's hair and carefully set Sammy on his arms. His brother hugged him tight and Dean let him, used by now to the weight clinging to him. "Hey Sammy," he greeted his brother, grinning when Sammy gave him a sloppy kiss before planting his feet on the ground and bouncing in place. 

"Wait here, buddy, I'm gonna set your teacher here straight," John told him boldly and Dean nodded, watching him step away with Mrs. Donolly. Her face was priceless. 

Dean didn't pay them attention though, holding Sammy close as he peered around Dean to the playground with his typical curiosity. 

"I had meatloaf for lunch today," Dean told his brother, who looked up at him with big, attentive eyes. Sammy always paid attention when Dean spoke and it was a good reason to keep doing it. "It was gross. I much rather mac'n'cheese or Dad's spaghetti. But maybe it was just the cooking in the cafeteria. It's pretty icky." 

"I hate ‘ool. You go ‘way and they give you bad food." Sammy informed him with a frown, making Dean grin. His brother was smart. "I like pizza." Like this was news to Dean. "And veggies." Okay, so his brother was also kinda weird. 

"Home, Dee? We c'n eat good stuff and play with the lil' people." Meaning Dean's toy soldiers. It was Sammy's new favourite game and Dean's too. They piled up their armies around the motel's room television and then knocked them down like one side was the bad guys against them- the good guys. Dad always said to be careful with Sammy, 'cause he put anything in his mouth when the fancy struck him and the plastic soldiers were small. But other than biting them a few times, Sammy had yet to really try and eat one. 

"In a minute, Sammy. Dad's busy." Raised voices got Dean's attention and he saw Dad gesturing angrily and Mrs. Donolly looking indignant at whatever he was saying. Dean thought she also looked kind of constipated. He caught a few words, like 'smart' and 'your job' and 'blind' and something Dean was pretty sure he'd be grounded if he repeated it. 

He shrugged and ignored them, focusing on Sammy again. "I saved you a chocolate." He told his brother, beaming when Sammy immediately looked alert and delighted. "Some girl gave it to me. Dunno why. But you can have it when we get home, 'kay? It's in my book bag." 

"Now?" Sammy asked hopefully, tugging on Dean's bag. Dean shook his head, amused.

"Later, Sammy. C'mon, Dad's coming." And he was. He still looked a bit angry but when he saw them looking he smiled and Dean thought he then looked a bit smug. Mrs. Donolly was also looking at them- at _him_ with something like guilt and something like anger, but Dean didn't pay her much attention. Dad put a hand on his shoulder again and took Sammy from his grip, ignoring the kid's fussing to stay with Dean. 

"C'mon, let's get going," Dad told him calmly, like nothing had happened, and Dean shrugged, following his lead. They walked in silence for a block or two, leaving the squealing children of the school behind. Sammy fell back asleep without much prompting. 

Dean's mind drifted for a while, curious about what Dad had told his teacher, wondering if he'd be put in the slow class. Wondering if maybe Dad was angry about it. He figured Dad would just tell him about it when he was ready to, just like Dean did. They understood each other like that. 

"Hey Dean?"

They were three blocks from the motel. Dean looked up and cocked his head, not voicing his curiosity. Dad got it anyway and he didn't seem frustrated with Dean's stubborn bouts of silence like most people often were. They didn't need the words. 

"Don't believe a word that woman said, you hear me kiddo?" Dad told him- ordered him, really- and Dean blinked once, then nodded. He hadn't believed her to be right, really. Not all the way. That his father hadn't either made it easier. "Dean, I'm serious. You're a normal kid. That you're quiet doesn't mean a thing, you hear? If they try to force you to talk when you're not ready just ignore 'em. You have a right to do things your way. You're a good kid." 

Dean remembered a time when Dad hadn't thought so. When his silence was a source of pain and frustration for him, something he didn't understand. But when Dean had started talking again, to him and Sammy, he seemed to get it. He didn't rebuke him his quiet around strangers anymore but when they were alone he asked him things often, trying to get more words from Dean whenever he could. Dean didn't mind it, anymore. Dad understood him, had learned to see _him_ beyond the words. It was comforting. 

"Dean," Dad told him then, when they were almost to the motel room's door. "Good job on that A. What do you say if after dinner I teach you how to shoot targets, hm? You've been pushing to learn."

Other fathers would have offered him ice-cream or a trip to a ball game. Other fathers wouldn't have seen Dean's eyes light up like they did at the prospect of learning what his father knew, of being able to protect his family one day. Other fathers wouldn't have understood how everything was different in their world- wouldn't have seen _Dean_ instead of a seven year old boy. Dad did. 

It was comforting.

"Thanks Dad," He said out-loud because some things were better expressed through words. John smiled at him, pleased. Dean smiled back and went into their room, feeling lighter. It looked like he'd be learning useful things today after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Dean mentions in No Exit his favorite memory of his Dad was from when he was 6 or 7, so I based his age on the third snippet from there.
> 
> Originally posted at http://sin-of-pride.livejournal.com/70236.html


End file.
